A Portrait of the Magizoologist as a Young Man
by Malecrit
Summary: It's 1917 and the Great War is raging in the Muggle World, but Newt Scamander, age twenty, has troubles of his own. Beasts, books, Quidditch, and post-adolescent confusion abound as Newt and his friends sort out their lives.
1. Ministry Men

Author's Note: Many thanks to Amanda and Aleph for their wonderful beta-reading and Britpicking. This would be in far worse shape if it weren't for them, and any errors herein are entirely my own. Also, the title of this story is a take-off on James Joyce's _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_. Thank you for reading; reviews are much appreciated.  
  
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_"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,   
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find   
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,  
[For indeed I do not love it … you knew? you are not blind!   
How keen you are!]   
To find a friend who has these qualities,  
Who has, and gives   
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.   
How much it means that I say this to you—   
Without these friendships—life, what _cauchemar_!"_   
- T.S. Eliot, "Portrait of a Lady"   
  
Chapter One: Ministry Men  
  
"Would it be all right if I knock off a bit early, sir?"  
  
"Hrm? Oh, yes, yes, run along," a portly, middle-aged wizard said dismissively through his thick moustache. He didn't raise his eyes from Newt Scamander's report, which he had hovering away from himself at some distance so that he might read it properly, and swiveled in his chair to take better advantage of the light spilling in from the leaded glass window.   
  
"Thanks, sir. Have a pleasant weekend." Newt backed stiffly out of the room, closing the door behind him. His shoulders slumped as the latch clicked into place, and he set off for his own tiny office, his lonely footsteps resounding down the corridor. Newt now had two days ahead of him free from the stuffy constraint of his workplace. Only two days. How very depressing.   
  
For over two years now, he had worked as an assistant to Mr. Grutch in the Office of House-Elf Relocation. Newt's father, a retired Ministry employee, had pulled every string within reach to secure him a job in the Magical Creatures department. Mr. Scamander was a man of some respect, a pure-blood and old money, but he was also of a mild disposition; though he may have pulled strings, the son would have benefited had his father done so with greater force. And thus Newt's life was filled with the squeaky voice and poor grammar of the British house-elf. Usually it was his position to find them new homes in the aftermath of clothes, but the report he had just handed in was a bit different and involved the placement of Natty, whose previous owner had died at the age of one hundred and sixty-three, leaving no heirs and a frightfully outdated will.   
  
"All good there?" Henry Kettleburn called as he strolled up to Newt, who had just then reached his office door.   
  
"Oh yes. How go the centaurs?"   
  
Henry shrugged, brushing his overgrown brown fringe from his eyes. He looked as though he had just awakened from a rather lengthy nap. "Today is day two hundred and ninety-two of Not a Damned Thing Happening in the Centaur Liaison Office, not including weekends, holidays and any Mondays I've, um, owled in ill. So they're just fine, I reckon." Like Newt, Henry had erred in allowing his relations to secure his post-Hogwarts employment; it had been his uncle Ferdinand's eccentric friend, Aberforth, who had rustled up the tremendously dull job.   
  
Newt smiled sympathetically. "Still keeping track, are you?"   
  
"Well, you know, there's little else to do, though I did finish the _Prophet_ crossword in record time."   
  
"That's something, then."   
  
"Not really." Henry frowned. "It only leaves me more time to practice my thumb twiddling. But anyway, are you done for the day? Care for a pint?"   
  
"Of course. I'll just pop in and grab my cloak."   
  
Minutes later, the two young men stepped out of the Ministry of Magic offices and into a shaft of waning afternoon sunlight that slipped down between the tall buildings crowding the alley. As a child, Newt had always imagined that the interior of the Ministry consisted of long, bright marbled corridors, the very picture of justice and progress and other noble things. In reality, it was like most other magical establishments: dusty, a bit dim, smelling faintly of mold, and lined with heavy stone and wood paneling. Although he was loath to admit it, it had all been something of a letdown. Newt breathed in deeply now, relishing the crisp early autumn air and, with Henry close behind, plunged into the milling four o'clock crowd, heading in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron.   
  
While Newt had placed the finishing touches on his report, securing his parchment with the brown grosgrain ribbon that adorned all official documents of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Porpentina Pringle had toiled away in a rear office of the Obscurus Books publishing firm, located at 18a Diagon Alley. Dipping her quill once more into a well of scarlet ink, she marked a thick, clear line through a sentence of the manuscript that lay before her. She paused, reaching up beneath her wire-rimmed spectacles to rub her eyes before contemplating the next page.   
  
_The Wit-Sharpening Potion is a wonderful way to clear the senses and focus the mind; it's a simple concoction of readily available flora and fauna. Scarab beetle, armadillo bile and ginger root are the primary ingredients; a steady, controlled temperature is important, too..._  
  
Having been assigned to edit entries beginning with the letters N through Z of a recently commissioned reference book, _Magical Drafts and Potions_, she had been muddling through the latter half of the alphabet for some time now. Arsenius Jigger was certainly a thorough researcher and a talented Potions master, but Porpentina felt his writing wanted improvement. Although she appreciated the refresher course in Potions she had been receiving, she had long since tired of his abuse of the semi-colon. It seemed to her that Jigger must have applied the Imperius Curse to his punctuation marks in order to maneuver them into such unwieldy positions.   
  
Porpentina removed a small timepiece from her pocket. It was four-fifteen, which meant forty-five minutes of drudgery remained. Her eyes glazed over and the watch face drifted out of focus; that scant three quarters of an hour felt to her like an eternity.   
  
A rushing sound suddenly joined the crackling of the fire in the hearth, and a young woman's face appeared in the flames, spinning to a stop.   
  
"Having a kip, are we, Penny?" Jocunda Sykes's low, ebullient voice broke the drowsy hush of the office, a wry smile twisting her mouth.   
  
Porpentina's body jerked with surprise at the sound of her friend's voice. "What? You shouldn't startle me like that. And don't be silly, of course I was awake," she replied, rising and coming around to the front of her desk.  
  
"Whatever you say. Anyway, I've just snuck away for a moment to see if you'd like to have dinner out this evening."  
  
"Oh, well, actually, I have plans, so don't worry about me."   
  
"Ooh, what's this? Dining with your beau, are you? You really should tell me these things--Wha-a-at?" Jocunda's face disappeared and was subsequently replaced by her right shoulder and a long tangle of dark hair. Porpentina remained standing patiently before the hearth, running her hand along the feather of her quill. A moment later, Jocunda's face swung back around, exasperated.   
  
"Something foul's afoot at the Quidditch shop?"   
  
"I've got to run. Some little monster's upset a basket of Snitches and set them flitting around downstairs," Jocunda said, rolling her eyes. "Too bad none of us was ever a Seeker. You couldn't pass up dinner to help out, I suppose? Ah, well, anyway, have a nice evening. Perhaps I'll see you tonight, if we ever sort out this mess."   
  
"Good luck."  
  
Jocunda's face vanished and then quickly reappeared again. "And Penny, be sure to scrub your hands before you meet Valerius. You look like Lady Macbeth."   
  
"Who?" Porpentina looked down at her ink-stained fingers.   
  
Jocunda made an impatient clucking sound. "How do you expect to be a writer when you don't know Shakespeare?"   
  
"Oh, right." Porpentina really ought to have guessed about Lady Macbeth. Jocunda was always spouting off about one Muggle thing or another. "Oh! Your Snitches!"   
  
And with that reminder, Jocunda disappeared from the fire for the last time that afternoon, grumbling as she went.   
  
Inside the pub, Newt and Henry found themselves once more bathed in lambent oil lamplight. Before settling down at a small table, Newt fished an assortment of coins from his pockets and handed them over to Henry, who headed for the bar. Almost everyone was still busy at work; a few elderly wizards were hunched over mugs at the bar, and Newt could hear the chatter of a coven of witches drifting over from a far corner of the room, but the pub was otherwise empty.   
  
Newt stifled a yawn as Henry returned with their drinks, pulling out his chair with his foot and dropping into it with a sigh. "Merlin's beard, I've only spent six hours in that place and I'm already exhausted."   
  
Without replying, Newt took a long swig of bitter and then started as his mug made contact with the table more vigorously than he had intended. A wizened warlock scowled at him from across the pub, and in response Newt blushed crimson, suddenly taking a great interest in the timeworn grain of the heavy wooden tabletop.   
  
Henry was idly tracing his forefinger along the rim of his own glass. He'd been out of Hogwarts for over a year now, and although he'd always dreamed of working with animals, the closest he'd got was letting a rundown flat above Eeylops Owl Emporium. It must have been even worse for Newt, too, Henry had always thought. He knew Newt felt just as dissatisfied, probably even more so, since he'd been slogging through for twice as long now and was still living on his parents' estate to boot. They didn't really discuss the matter, though. Their weeks were propelled along by ritual; they always expressed the same grievances and released the same sighs as their fingers tapped the same staccato rhythms against their mugs. It was as though it had never crossed their minds to actually do anything about their situations.   
  
Henry slouched down in his seat, staring up at the heavy wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. "I reckon if I could do this over again, Newt, I'd be sure to ignore my uncle when he says a chap can really get ahead in the Ministry. Or that working in the Beast Division has anything to do with actual beasts. I've not seen a real, live centaur once in my entire _life_." Yawning loudly, he remembered his manners in time to cover his mouth with the palm of his hand. "I'm getting paid to do absolutely nothing, and I reckon some people would envy that, but look at me! I've gone to fat. Some days I think I might as well just give notice."   
  
"How you do make Hufflepuff proud!" Newt smiled. He'd heard this monologue before, more or less.   
  
"Please, Newt! If I heard the Welsh Green reservation was taking on anyone new, I'd probably splinch myself trying to get there."   
  
"Oh, right, I know. Me, too."   
  
"I know, shall we resign together? Stop looking so apathetic. Forget the Welsh Greens. Maybe we can go out to Romania. Or China, with the Fireballs. Or ... or ... Oh, dash it, I'd rather be working with Puffskeins than doing this, and don't even tell me you don't feel the same. You hate paperwork, admit it."   
  
"I don't hate paperwork. There's no point in hating something so necessary. I'd just rather it were a bit more meaningful, though that's not to say I think house-elves don't deserve consideration. It's just ... I don't know, leaving would be--well, things are sort of ... complicated."   
  
"Are they?" Henry's brow furrowed in consternation. "What are you on about?"   
  
"Oh, well. It's nothing. Never mind. I reckon I'll sort it out eventually." Newt bit his lip. "So, did you want to go to the Tornados match next weekend? They're playing the Magpies, but I expect we can still find some tickets."   
  
"Of course. That'll be brilliant!" If Newt was going to get cagey about things, Henry thought it best to overlook the sudden change of subject, and besides, he really was looking forward to the match, which would feature the two best Seekers in the league. "Our very own Plumpton meeting Eunice Murray! Now that's what Omnioculars were made for."   
  
"Good, then. Two tickets it is." It had turned out that Newt's father's most useful Ministry connection had come in the form of Victor Palaestra, second in line at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. "So, what do you think? Plumpton will play for England again this year, right?"   
  
"If you read the paper every day instead of filling out those reports, you wouldn't have to ask. Of course he'll play--who else would, anyway? Well, all right, there is an outside chance for Murray, but I think they'd have to be daft to select her. And this time we're not going down to Luxembourg in the semifinal, that's for certain. England will have the World Cup in 1918."   
  
"You sound quite confident about that."   
  
"What, are you saying I shouldn't trust Bert Winkle's editorials? Or Plumpton's talent, for that matter?" Henry raised his mug to his lips and glanced around the pub, as if looking for anyone who might actually disagree with him. Of course, no one was even paying him any attention, but there was a very familiar girl hovering by the bar, apparently attempting to choose a table for herself. "So, ah, not to be too abrupt, but have you been in touch with Porpentina lately?"   
  
Newt colored slightly at the mention of the girl's name. "Er, no. Why?"   
  
"Oh, well, she's here, that's all." Henry looked back across the room, accidentally making the briefest eye contact with Porpentina. "And, ah, she's spotted me, and she's ... yes, she's coming over now."   
  
Small and bespectacled, Porpentina materialized, smiling, beside their table. Her hair was tucked up beneath her best hat, and she looked a bit like a mouse, if such a creature were to don glasses and a hat. "Hello, there, Henry, and, oh, hello, Newt. It's been such a long time, hasn't it?"   
  
Newt began to feel as though several Cornish Pixies had suddenly taken up residence in his stomach. "It has, yes. How've you been?"   
  
"Quite all right, thanks."   
  
"Have you, er, seen Jocunda? How is she?" Henry asked as a deep blush bloomed on the apples of his cheeks.   
  
"Jocunda's quite well. I'll say hello to her for you, if you'd like."   
  
Henry smiled appreciatively.   
  
"Say, would you like to join us? You're more than welcome," Newt offered, more at ease now that his friend's old, steadfast fondness for Jocunda Sykes had resurfaced.   
  
"Oh! I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I'm already with someone." Porpentina looked nervously over her shoulder and, as if on cue, a strapping, smartly dressed man walked up, clutching a mismatched pair of drinks. Newt reckoned he must have been at least twenty-five.   
  
Thanking him, Porpentina accepted the glass of gillywater the man proffered and turned back to the occupants of the small table. "Newt Scamander, Henry Kettleburn," she said, indicating them with her free hand. "This is Valerius Travers, of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Valerius, Newt and Henry are both in Magical Creatures. We were at school together--I believe I've mentioned them before."   
  
Travers looked superciliously at Newt and Henry. "Ah, yes, I remember. A Ravenclaw and a ... Hufflepuff? So you're playing with beasties. What fun."   
  
Henry cleared his throat, and Porpentina suddenly appeared very stricken. "Well, I suppose we ought to leave you two. I didn't mean to intrude on your conversation," she said quickly. "It really is so good to see you both."   
  
"Good afternoon, boys," Travers added with a grin, grasping Porpentina firmly by the elbow and steering her away before anyone else could say his farewell.   
  
Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, producing a nervous cough. "Exactly how long has it been since you last heard from her?"   
  
"Six months?"   
  
"Well, he's moved in quickly, then..." Henry trailed off, watching Newt stare down into his empty glass. "Hey, look, let me buy you another." Before he could reply, Henry snatched the mug from his friend's grasp and headed back to the bar.   
  
Several tables away, Travers pulled out a chair for Porpentina and positioned himself so that Newt could just see Travers's smug expression as he reached across the table to grasp Porpentina's hand. Newt was soon grateful for Henry's swift return, which brought not only the drink, but also an obstruction of view. But even so, what he said out loud was "You know, I didn't--I don't have a thing for her, really."   
  
"Mmhmm," Henry said, and took another drink. 


	2. The Homefront

A/N: Thanks to Amanda for beta-reading. This chapter hasn't been Brit-picked yet, and so is subject to future revision.  
  
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Chapter Two: The Homefront   
  
Porpentina rose later than usual on Saturday morning, awakened by a sharp rap on her door. Pulling on her dressing gown and fishing her well-worn slippers out from beneath the bed, she hurried to meet her visitor. Not surprisingly, it was Jocunda, fist poised ready to knock again and wearing a Muggle frock.   
  
The girls lived down the hall from one another in a boarding house on Diagon Alley, nestled between an apothecary and a milliner's shop. It was the proper dwelling for young women of their station, providing a suitable resting place between school and marriage while affording a bit more privacy than the former allowed--and the latter, too, some might say. An elderly widow, Mrs. Mildred Askew, was the proprietress of the establishment. She was kind but firm, an ideal surrogate mother for the ten ladies she boarded, and was liked far better than the twelfth resident, her own twin sister, Miss Edwina Cronk, who was a spinster and looked it.  
  
"Good morning!" Jocunda said briskly. "Now get dressed, Penny. I'm dragging you out into London today, and no objections. We haven't left Diagon Alley in weeks."  
  
Frowning and mumbling something about breakfast, Porpentina let Jocunda into her quarters and began to search the wardrobe for her own Muggle clothing. She'd received the outfit from Jocunda as a birthday present the previous year, precisely so she could accompany her friend on such outings. Jocunda tossed her hat onto the bed and sat down at Porpentina's desk, flipping lazily through a book of eighteenth-century Wizarding poetry that lay open upon it.   
  
"Still fishing for inspiration?" she said, glancing at the furiously scratched-out notes that had been left on a nearby piece of parchment.  
  
"Yes," Porpentina admitted as she put on her stockings. "I'm afraid the muse still refuses to return from her summer holiday." She wanted desperately to be a writer--of prose, or poetry, or even of plays, it truly mattered not--but she found herself quite completely lacking in subject matter. It was beginning to look as though she'd be editing her whole life long, if ideas continued to remain just beyond her grasp.   
  
After several minutes, Porpentina presented herself for approval, grimacing down at her feet. "Do I look all right? I really do prefer robes, you know. It's always so odd to have my ankles showing like this."   
  
"Oh, stop, you look perfectly fine. Just get your hat and be happy we can get away without corsets, the way they're dressing these days."  
  
Porpentina looked doubtful. "Well, shall we go to Gringotts first, or do you have some Muggle money? And are you sure it's safe to go out there? We're not going to be blown up, are we?"  
  
Looking in the mirror, Jocunda positioned her hat on her head and said matter-of-factly, "Don't be silly. You know very well there haven't been any daylight attacks in months, and we'll be home long before nightfall. And of course I have money. You should, too, you know. What would you do if you were ever stranded in the Muggle world without your wand?"  
  
"I still don't see how anything of the sort would ever happen," Porpentina replied, standing beside Jocunda as she put on her own hat.   
  
Jocunda was right about the bombings, at least. Surely they would be safe, but even so, she couldn't help feeling nervous. All these years now, they had been able to hear the German bombs dropping first from Zeppelins and now, since June, from the Gotha planes. Diagon Alley might have been physically protected from the Muggle attacks, but that didn't stop the noise, muffled all around and overhead. It reminded Porpentina of being at school, where the loud arguments between two older girls could always be heard through the dormitory wall. She couldn't have avoided listening, but still, she had felt guilty for knowing what she shouldn't and had harbored an irrational fear of being discovered and dragged into the fray.  
  
A short time later, the girls had left their boarding house, walked up Diagon Alley through the hustle and bustle of morning shoppers, and finally stepped through the front door of the Leaky Cauldron into Muggle London.  
  
"So, how long did the Snitch retrieval effort take?" Porpentina asked as they made their way down Charing Cross Road. She made a concerted effort to speak naturally and to ignore the discomfort she always felt outside the Wizarding world.   
  
"Oh, it was horrid," Jocunda said, being sure to keep her voice low, lest any Muggle overhear talk of Quidditch. "At half past ten there was still one missing, but Otto finally gave up for the night and sent me home. And he never did catch the little brat who did it; apparently he cleared out before I even made it back downstairs. Thank goodness I'm off today, though. I'm sure Patrick will have that last Snitch caught before noon." She sighed. "So, how was your evening? Surely more pleasant than mine, I presume. Are you engaged yet?"   
  
Jocunda spoke with amusement and an unintentional sense of superiority, for she'd determined long ago that she would never marry. Marriage, her logic went, endangered a woman to a loss of freedom and the bearing of children. Of course, certain lifestyles might lead an unwed girl to the latter, anyway, but Jocunda possessed a talent for turning a blind eye to such inconvenient thoughts.  
  
"No, of course I'm not, but my evening was just fine," Porpentina replied. "It's awfully easy to talk to Valerius, at least. Do you remember that one chap my mum once set me up with, the one from the Department of Mysteries? He barely spoke two words to me the whole evening. Took his job far too seriously, I think."  
  
"Yes, well, Valerius does seem like a rather smooth talker." Jocunda laughed. "Pity you can't write a story about that other one, though. You'd be rather short of dialogue, I should think."   
  
"Oh, but do you know who else I saw yesterday evening? Newt and Henry were there. It was such a surprise; it's been months. And you'll be pleased to hear that Henry asked after you."  
  
"I'm absolutely shocked. I take it Hank's still the sad little puppy he always was?"  
  
"The poor boy," Porpentina said. "You always treated him dreadfully. He's so devoted to you."  
  
"I did not treat him dreadfully. You just can't hold someone who grovels at your feet in such high esteem."  
  
Two uniformed ladies--members of the Women's Police Service--passed by then, and Porpentina glanced back at them as they disappeared in the crowd of Muggles. "Did I ever tell you," she whispered, "that I used to be so afraid you'd do something drastic and join that lot, or sneak off to the front lines somehow?"  
  
"You're joking!" Jocunda laughed loudly enough to attract the attention of other pedestrians. "You should know I'd never mix business with pleasure, dear."  
  
"Yes, that coming from an employee of Quality Quidditch Supplies."  
  
"But, Penny," Jocunda teased, dropping her voice to a whisper, "Quidditch isn't pleasure. Quidditch is everything!" After a moment, she continued more soberly, "Muggles, however, are merely a hobby. That's part of the benefit of being in our position. We can take just as much of an interest as we like--we can read their books and listen to their music and visit their shops--but then when they start doing terrible things to each other, we don't have to be a part of it. They, on the other hand, have the misfortune of having to take the good and the bad, all together in one messy package."  
  
They walked on in silence while Porpentina considered this. "But don't you find it a bit unfair," she said finally, "that you can steal their culture, more or less, and then, when they've hit a spot of trouble, it's 'Ta-ta?' Not to be house-obsessive, but doesn't that offend your Gryffindor sensibilities?"  
  
"What, and go against centuries-old Magical policy? Look, if Britain was fighting a dark wizard, you know I'd do what I could to protect her in a second, although I don't know what a lame Beater could do in the face of Unforgivables. But bravery doesn't always have to come before common sense, you know, not even for Gryffindors. And besides," Jocunda concluded, her voice growing emotional, "we already know what good comes from going off to fight."  
  
That spring, a pure-blood Gryffindor in the year below them had gone bravely out to the trenches and returned home only weeks later. For days afterward, the _Daily Prophet_ had been filled with articles and editorials and letters to the editor, and the obituary had nearly been lost entirely amidst the uproar.  
  
"He was a dashed good Chaser, too," Jocunda muttered, mostly to herself. "What a shame."  
  
* * *  
  
For well over two hundred years now, the Scamander estate had been tucked sleepily away in rural Dorset, a stone's throw from the Wriggle River. A thick growth of ivy covered the main house, behind which a sloping lawn led down to an old barn that appeared more than a mite sturdier to wizards' eyes than it did to any Muggle ones.   
  
Within this structure and its adjoining paddocks, Newt's mother, Agnes Scamander, raised her fancy Hippogriffs, which had the reputation of being the most domesticated individuals of their species in all of Britain. Her love of the animals had long preceded her marriage, and the estate's facilities had only served to hasten the transition from hobby to lifelong passion.   
  
Now in her mid-fifties, Agnes was still a woman of a vibrant nature, and though crow's feet crinkled the corners of her eyes, her blonde hair had not yet given way to silver. Like clockwork, every morning she dressed in functional, if not particularly attractive, robes and a pair of Wellington boots and performed the required Disillusionment Charms on her Hippogriffs to ensure any curious Muggles woudld believe they had observed nothing more than a dozen stout and entirely unremarkable ponies.   
  
As a child, Newt had adored assisting his mother with these chores, and once he'd left Hogwarts, he had gladly resumed the work that for seven years he'd only been able to do during the summer and Christmas holidays. His job at the Ministry did interfere during the weekdays, but he spent a large part of his Saturdays and Sundays mucking happily about the barn with his mother's Hippogriffs.   
  
"So, dear, have you heard from the Pringle girl recently?" Agnes Scamander inquired of her son that Saturday morning after the charms had been performed and the row of large box stalls had been mucked out.   
  
"Oh, well--Might I have that hoof pick, please?--actually, I did see her at the Leaky Cauldron yesterday," Newt said as he bent down to inspect a Hippogriff's hoof. Agnes had named this particular beast Wormwood; she had demonstrated a knack for potion-making during her years at Hogwarts.   
  
"How is she doing? It's been ages since you last mentioned her." Agnes handed her son the requested tool and stepped around to the Hippogriff's head, offering a pan of dead rabbits to distract it from Newt's work.   
  
"She, ah, she seemed quite well. Easy, easy," Newt muttered, lifting the hoof with some difficulty. Wormwood balanced unsteadily on his other equine leg, and an eye looked warily back at Newt even as the beast devoured the rabbits. "We didn't speak for very long, though. She was with some MLE chap." He grimaced at the large, muck-filled hoof.   
  
"Your father knows a few of those MLE men, you know. I've met them, I think, once or twice, and they seemed very nice."  
  
"No, Mum, this wasn't one of them. Henry remembered him being several years ahead of us in school. Oh, looks like this one had a rock. Anyway, he was a Slytherin." Newt tossed the stone onto the straw-covered floor, straightened, and walked around the back of the Hippogriff, trailing his hand across the animal's gleaming bay rump.  
  
"You know better than to be so biased, Newt," Agnes replied calmly as she stroked the feathers along the Hippogriff's neck.  
  
Newt sighed. "Yes, yes, I know." He leaned down to pick up the other hoof. "After all, Great-Grandmother Quirke was a Slytherin, as was her father before her. Still, there was something about this fellow."  
  
"Well, dear, just how long was it since you'd last spoken to Miss Pringle?"  
  
"I don't know, six months or so, and Henry asked me that exact question, but I don't see what it's got to do with Porpentina's boyfriends." The Hippogriff ruffled its feathers impatiently, having made quick work of the rabbits.   
  
"Dear, do be careful down there. And perhaps if you'd paid more attention to her, she wouldn't be seeing 'some MLE chap,' as you put it."  
  
"Oh, Mum." Newt stood up and looked at her, gesturing with the hoof pick as he spoke. "Look, I haven't anything to do with that, and I don't know where you ever got any such idea."  
  
"Well, dear, all of your friends have been marrying, and you did speak of one girl for all seven years of your schooling. I can't quite help making assumptions. You're not bringing any other girls home, either."  
  
"Henry's not married, and he doesn't have a girlfriend. I'm not the only one." Newt turned back to the Hippogriff, adding lamely, "Besides, we're focusing on our work."  
  
"Fine." Agnes watched Newt work, patiently holding the bloody food dish. "But how is your job, anyway? You don't speak of it very often. Your father would always tell me about what happened at the office."  
  
"Mum, please. Dad worked in Improper Use; there's no end of anecdotes from that office. I work with house-elves. And I'd rather spend my Saturday mornings not thinking about them."   
  
"All right, all right. Don't talk to your mother, then. But will you please make the old woman happy and brush Belladonna when you're through here? I should go back up to the house and see about lunch."  
  
"Yes, Mum. Don't forget to tell Pippy to set a place for Henry." Newt released the Hippogriff's hoof and brushed some dirt from the animal's flank. "And Mum, you're not old at all."   
  
Agnes smiled, stepping out of the stall and closing the door behind her. "Thanks, dear. Take care with the roan; she's been a bit tetchy lately."   
  
* * *  
  
"Jocunda, are we going anywhere in particular?" Porpentina thought to ask as they turned the corner onto Greek Street. Her stomach grumbled unhappily, and she remembered for the first time since leaving home that she hadn't yet eaten.  
  
"The tobacconist's," Jocunda replied. "Though would you mind terribly if I were to tell you this was merely a nice, long morning constitutional? Good for the health, and all that?"  
  
"The tobacconist's? But Jocunda, I thought you were only smoking those Muggle ciga--cigarettes on a whim," Porpentina said, stumbling a bit over the long word. Cigarettes hadn't been adopted into the Wizarding world yet, though pipes were smoked enthusiastically by witches and wizards alike. "It's such a very inconvenient habit, don't you think?"  
  
"Nonsense. Pipes are such a bother, really, and they look ridiculous used by anyone as young as we are. Cigarettes are just lovely, though, and I can still laze about the sitting room with Miss Cronk while she has her pipe." Jocunda was, in fact, the only boarder who had taken a liking to the old woman, who spent most of her afternoons doing needlework and producing billowing clouds of smoke that lingered in the ground floor of the house.   
  
Porpentina found that smoke of any sort made her cough terribly, but she held her tongue and her breath as they stepped into the tobacconist's shop. She wavered just inside the threshold, looking very much as though she expected someone to detect that she was hiding a wand underneath her perfectly respectable, if slightly out-of-fashion, Muggle suit. Jocunda, however, stepped confidently up to the shop counter, asking the clerk for two packets of Three Castles. Opening her handbag, she sorted through her Muggle money and paid for the cigarettes with ease.  
  
Despite Jocunda's attempts to teach her, Porpentina had never quite been able to understand Muggle money. Not only were there pounds and shillings and pence, but guineas and florins, and so on and so forth. She assumed that if she'd any practical use for the knowledge, she wouldn't find it so difficult to understand. It frustrated her, but really, why couldn't the Muggles have developed something as simple as twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle and seventeen Sickles to a Galleon?  
  
On the street once again, Porpentina's stomach grumbled audibly.  
  
"Hungry, Penny?" Jocunda said, oblivious to the fact that it was she who had come between Porpentina and her breakfast in the first place.   
  
"Famished. "  
  
"There's a nice little place--"  
  
"Home? "  
  
"--just up the street." Jocunda sighed the sigh of a person who cannot comprehend why her interests are not shared by her friends. "Oh, all right. Home, then. But you ruin all my fun."   
  
She was further dismayed when Porpentina looked nervously about them and slipped into a nearby alley. Wishing to walk back, Jocunda followed reluctantly to find Porpentina fumbling with her clothing in order to remove her wand. A few moments later, a fire engine went careening up the busy street, creating a great din and distracting passers-by as Porpentina and Jocunda Disapparated back to Diagon Alley with a _pop_.


End file.
